Cold And Quiet

By Jean Ingelow

Cold, my dear, -- cold and quiet.
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower --
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;
And when our children sleep, she sighed, at the dusk hour,
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest
Love is that which loseth least;
Through the night-time while thou sleepest,
Still I watch the shrouded east.
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,
Lost is no word for such a love as mine;
Love from her past to me a present giveth,
And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth
That which was, and not in vain
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,
Love's last words atween us twain.
Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.